


The Thrill of His Control

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Vicious/Delicious: Johnstrade BDSM Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Dirty Talk, Aftercare, BDSM, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face-Fucking, Flogging, Gags, Hurt/Comfort, John is so Deep in Subspace it's Like he's Lying on the Ocean Floor, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prompt Fic, Rough Oral Sex, Scratching, Spanking, Sub!John, Trust Me It's Amazing, Tumblr Prompt, Ultra-Macho Dom Greg, dom!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 23:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7990921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg sends a demanding text; John submits, but goes down fighting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thrill of His Control

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to read fic like this; in lieu of reading one, I wrote it. Based on my own Johnstrade after-care headcanons from my own tumblr blog, and a mashup of these two gorgeous prompts:
> 
> An anonymous tumblrista prompted: -Text Exchange- GL: That willing mouth of yours. I want to fuck it raw. JW: It's yours. Have it. GL: You don't need to say that. I'll take it when I want to. Be ready. Soon.
> 
> FangirlScout prompted: "That's it," Greg coaxed, gripping tight onto John's hair, shoving his cock deep into his throat. John just groaned in return, chains clinking lightly as he shifted. His wrists were cuffed, ankles too, and both were chained together, forcing him to arch back slightly as he knelt in front of Greg. "Open your eyes, John. Look at me while I fuck your throat. I want to see how much you love it."

A brief exchange that let John know what was expected of him meant he was already naked on his knees by the time Greg  came to him, but John always went down fighting, so first there was the grunting, swearing, wrestling John into restraints, stoppering up his loud, fresh mouth for a while with Greg’s necktie knotted between his lips and the loose ends stuffed in. A few sound flicks with the backs of Greg’s fingers against John’s ring-pierced nipples and he thrashed, fighting the straps that held his arms at bicep, elbow, and wrist—thrusting his chest forward, those always-tingly pink nipples ready to be tugged, and so Greg tugged them, held them, until he settled—and at last John, on his knees, cast his eyes down to indicate his surrender.

“I told you already I want your mouth. Can you keep it quiet?”

A soft nod.

A sharp slap.

_“Can you keep your mouth shut?”_

Vigorous nodding even as the toe of Greg’s oxford nudged John’s bollocks, swaying there between his parted thighs. 

“We’ll see. First, you have a choice to make.”

John whined against the gag. He hated having to choose his own punishment, the cane or the crop; the strap or the belt; the paddle or the board. But Greg had let him off easy by giving him no say about the leather straps tight-buckled around his arms, nor the necktie-gag (a kindness, even though it had merely been expedient; John hated bits, bars, rings—anything he couldn’t close his lips around—because of the indignity of saliva dribbling down his chin from a mouth he couldn’t close in order to swallow).

He chose the heavy cat: nine, foot-long braids of leather the width of a pinky finger, knotted at the ends. The thick, silk-wrapped handle with rounded ends was one of Greg’s favourite toys to fuck John with. Set him on his hands and knees, fill him up, listen to him hiss and whimper as the heavy tongues of leather hung from his slap-reddened arse like a horsetail, fucking gorgeous, he’d a photo saved in his phone to wank to, and god, did he.

A delicious dream for another time. For there was Greg’s pretty pet on his knees, with his head bowed. Those normally tight, straight shoulders gently rounded, his neck soft. He broke so beautifully.

Greg tucked two fingers between his necktie and John’s cheek, dragging his head up. Another struggle for John: to meet his gaze, and stay down. Usually there was a challenge in his eyes, not bratty, exactly, more defensive, demanding Greg prove himself. And so there it was, flashing dark blue. He could feel John biting down on the gag, keeping his mouth shut so Greg would have to force it open. This reluctance of John’s to roll over and show his belly was much of what kept Greg coming back for more. John forced him to get tough, be resolute,  _capital-D- **Dominate**_. It was never, ever boring.

Holding John’s face upward-gazing, staring hard into his still narrowed indigo eyes, Greg swung the cat underhand, not hard but rhythmic and unrelenting against John’s chest, first one breast then the other, certain that John’s already awakened nipples would telegraph the sharp throb of pain and harsh tingle of pleasure in lightning-white streaks straight down into his cock and bollocks.

John’s eyes closed; Greg hit him harder. John’s eyes opened again. Furious. Helpless. Needy. Defiant.

“Widen your knees, I don’t want anything touched until I touch it.”

John did as he was told, settling his arse down onto his heels, his thighs arranged at an obtuse angle. Dragging the cat up John’s chest, over his shoulder, down one arm, then up again, just tickling, smoothing, Greg leaned back to get a look at John’s thick cock, heavy, still resting against his bollocks, but twitching now and then, flushing dark. Greg yanked at the gag, pulling John up and sideways, head leading neck and shoulders, making him check his balance, forcing him to trust Greg not to let him fall. Or to let him fall.

The cat swirled a flurry of sweet sensation up one of John’s thighs, in a swish and curl all over and around his cock—John huffed a gasp through his nostrils—then down the other thigh, a smooth flow of Greg’s arm in a backward, upward arc, all the way over his head and around, to slap down in the middle of John’s back. His chest—red-streaked, the nipple-rings shivering with each movement—arched forward as the instinct to escape the pain took over. Greg rested the cat against his back, still, not threatening, and John inhaled sharp and hard through his nose, then again, schooling his breath to distract from the pain.

“Look here,” Greg demanded, and let go of the gag so John could freely move his head. He obeyed in an instant, eyes soft and wide. Eager, of course, but—oh god, beautiful,  _beautiful_  man, precious pet—utterly vulnerable, completely trusting Greg to guide him. Greg sucked his teeth, and his prick ached, and his chest puffed up like a goddamn rooster, cock of the fucking walk indeed. John was his, and he could do as he liked. Anything he liked, and John would take it. Wanted it. Wanted Greg to use him, hurt him, fuck him, beat him into the dirt. Greg snarled.

“I’m gunna fuck that mouth of yours until you choke,” he promised. “Come all over your face.”

John made a contented sound, and Greg gave him two more sound smacks with the cat, the fresh agony atop the old making John squirm and grunt. “Slut.” John lurched forward, arms flexing against the leather straps that held them behind his back, nuzzled his face against Greg’s groin, chin and nose against the fabric of his trousers, making urgent noises around the necktie gag, now ruined with John’s saliva; he’d get another walloping for wrecking it, later. But first.

“Greedy. Stop showing off, trying to prove how eager you are. . .think you’ll make me forget to hurt you? That it?”

John fell back to his kneel, dropped his head and shook it in the negative.

“Nevermind,” Greg told him, and draped the cat over John’s shoulder for safekeeping as he dragged his t-shirt up his torso and off, then unfastened his trousers and shoved them down his thighs. “I can do both. You’re going to take it. My prick _and_  the beating.” Greg’s cock had responded fully to the rush of power-over he felt when John’s face made his surrender so beautifully plain, and as he removed the gag, John’s tongue pushed at the knot, and he opened his mouth to chase Greg’s erection. Greg slapped his face, wide palm flat against his cheek, and John lurched, nearly overbalanced, but caught himself. “Didn’t I tell you to stop playing teacher’s pet? You’re here to be used, you don’t get to lead. Understand? Answer.”

“I understand. I’m sorry I was bad.”

Sly bugger; he knew just where to click.

“I’ll show you sorry,” Greg muttered, and took up the handle of the cat, swept the other hand behind John’s neck to pull him forward and down, presenting his narrow but sturdy back and the upper curves of his buttocks. Greg started to swing in earnest, each successive blow landing atop the previous one, the knotted ends of the tails licking out unpredictably, red lines of the lashes springing up as blood rushed beneath John’s skin. Soon enough there were no individual marks, just one vaguely X-shaped splotch of brightening red, with jagged, dotted edges.

John’s grunts turned to moans, and then to cries, and fuck, if he kept up noises like that Greg would come all over his face never even having got his cock into John’s open, eager mouth. He kept up the blows, in slower rhythm, as he guided the head of his cock to John’s lips, which he licked without being told—

“That’s good, pet. Eager little slut. Open.”

—and John opened his lips, his mouth, his throat, taking him down quite far in one long shove that made Greg groan and hit him harder, off-center. There were marks on his arms from the knots, little slashes of red on John’s biceps and forearms, even on his wrists, gorgeous, gorgeous.

Greg drew back, and John shifted a bit, lowered his head and dropped his jaw, and Greg pushed in again, deeper, could see in John’s shoulders and the flex of his biceps that he was struggling, but he took it, obeyed. One last withdrawal, not all the way, and Greg’s clutching fingers behind his neck told John what was expected of him as clearly as Greg’s voice could.

Fucking hard into John’s wet, hot, wide-open mouth, Greg let the cat thud down again and again on John’s back, his shoulders, his upper arms, medium-hard, steady, in time with the thrust of his prick, layer upon layer of licking, stinging pain for his

“Pretty pet.”

Lost lamb.

“Greedy slut.”

Beautiful man. You gift. You treasure.

He let the leather tails tickle a light drag up the length of John’s spine, eased the grip on his neck but John didn’t fall away gasping and gagging, instead rolled his tongue in circles, sucked, pressed forward until he was digging the tip of his nose into Greg’s pubic hair, and swallowed around him, making Greg shudder and moan. Greg let the cat softly thump against John’s shoulder, then his upper back, barely anything but his skin was by now so sensitive even these weak smacks made him jump and shiver.

Greg pushed him away by a hand on his forehead.

“Please,” John begged, sounding hoarse and frantic.

Greg used the handle of the cat to guide his chin up. “Look here. Tell me what you want.”

“Hurt me.”

Greg cocked an eyebrow, gave him a look.

 _“Please!”_ High and broken. Greg could see in his eyes that John was way, way down in it, utterly surrendered. In spite of—or because of—the pain of the blows and the choking, unrelenting thrusts of Greg’s prick invading his throat, John’s own cock was thick, upright, dripping steadily between his wide-spread thighs.

“And?”

John sounded slurry and delirious. “I wanna suck. . .”

“Still playing eager boy, are we? You want to suck me off, or you just want this—” he smacked the cat down hard against the left side of John’s chest, and the knotted end of one tail caught in his nipple ring, pulling and dragging as Greg withdrew it “—to end.”

“. . .sssuck. . .” John repeated and his eyes fluttered shut. “. . .please. . .”

“Head and shoulders on the floor,” Greg demanded, and John looked miserably sad for a moment but complied, leaning forward until he toppled onto his shoulder and the side of his face, letting his hips cant upward. Greg quickly shed his tugged-down trousers as John accustomed himself to the new position, then walked around beside him, brushed the tails of the cat in luxuriant, sweet spirals over one buttock, then the other. John rubbed his face against the carpet, digging in, moaning. “Settle down, you,” Greg warned, and John went still. The arch of his back from his downward-tipped head up to his raised pelvis, arms folded and strapped behind his waist, was positively breathtaking, and drove Greg on.

Greg drew the cat back toward his hip. “Brace yourself.” He swung up and around, a figure-eight in the air, each downward stroke smacking down hard on each of John’s buttocks in turn. A tangle of skinny red welts sprang up, bright dots where the knots landed, and after a few hard belts the lines gave way to indiscriminate bursts of bright red, blurred-edged and inviting. John yelped, then shouted, then wailed in time with the licks to his well-abused backside.

“Please!” he cried.  _“Please!”_ Greg caught his breath; John was his.

“You beg so pretty, pet.” He laid the cat aside, landed a few heavy smacks with his bare palm against the superheated surface of John’s skin. “I could fuck you now, fuck you so damn hard, slam up against your sore arse on every stroke.” He dragged the edges of his fingernails down, then up, John’s buttocks. John whined and squirmed but didn’t move away. “You’d like that. You love the way I hurt you. Slut.”

“. . .I. . .pleassse. . .I want. . .I wanna sssuck. . .”

“Don’t _care_ what you want.” Greg considered, swirling fingertips and nails over John’s arse. “Mm. Stay.” He half-knelt there at John’s raised hip, spit into his palm, and took John’s wonderfully thick, copiously drizzling prick in his hand. All business, he stroked downward, again and again, milking John’s cock to draw his orgasm, all the while scraping his fingernails against the red marks left on his arse by the beating. John had given himself to Greg, and Greg would fucking _have_ him. “I want you to come, now, pet” Greg told him. “You’ll come because I want it. Fuck what you want. You’re nothing but my plaything, yeah?”

John hummed desperation, his hips jumping and rolling, trying to fuck into Greg’s hand, which moved for quick efficiency rather than drawn-out pleasure, trying to squirm away from the itching sting of Greg’s hard-scratching fingernails.

“Give it to me,” Greg demanded, and switched from scratching to open-handed smacking, in time with his pulls on John’s cock. After a just a handful of coordinated strokes and slaps, John let out deep, gravelly shout and his cock swelled and pulsed in Greg’s hand. “Beautiful,” Greg told him, and as the last shudders lit through John’s body, Greg resumed his feet and walloped John’s backside with his bare hand, alternating cheeks, a dozen more licks, and John groaned and shivered but he took it.

Greg stood upright, looked over his work. John: kneeling, bowing, on the floor, his chest heaving as he worked to catch his breath. John: striped vivid red and pink from the back of his neck to the tops of his thighs. John: his own, to use as he wished, to hurt and to have, but also to reassure, and to keep steady, and comfort. Greg’s erection thrummed; his blood surged beneath his skin as his sense of his own power found its peak. John had surrendered himself, taken what was given and given all that was demanded. Greg felt a rush of lust and appreciation that lit him up from deep in his belly, flushed his chest, made his brain burn. The adrenaline surge could make him stupid, make him cross lines; he reminded himself that John had taken enough punishment—taken it beautifully, he was ideal, went down fighting but once we was down he was miles deep and so pliant, so eager to please.

John whimpered, and rocked his hips a bit, side to side, seeking relief for sore knees, wanting to be finished.

“I see you,” Greg reassured him.

Ducking low, Greg hooked one thick finger into the heavy silver ring dangling from John’s nipple, and started to tug upward. “Up, now. Come on, cocky boy, let’s see you.” John started to rise, following the pull of the ring, but it was mostly for show, just a mindfuck; Greg gripped him hard by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet. John’s hair was sweat-soaked and plastered to his forehead, his gaze deliriously unfocused, his body shivering with the aftershocks of orgasm and the freshly-awakened pain of his welts as he shifted position. He was perfect. He was precious. Greg walked him the few feet to the bed and guided him up onto it, lying on his side nearer the foot than the head of the bed, then stretched his own body before John’s, aligning his aching, darkening cock with John’s face.

John made a needy noise and licked his lips. Wasting not another second, Greg took hold of the root of his prick with one hand, and John’s head with the other, and thrust the two together, hard, sudden, and John’s tongue slid hot beneath, his lips stretched, letting Greg fuck his mouth, obedient, willing to be used.

Greg growled, huffing hard breath, rocked in and out between John’s lips. He surrendered himself to the thrill of his control: ruthless, selfish, skating the edge of cruel.

“Look at me,” he commanded. “Open your eyes. I want—I want to see.” He gulped a deep breath. “See you. See how much you like it when I fuck you this way.”

John’s eyes, oozing reflexive tears, opened for him, and Greg loosened his grip on the sweaty hair in his fist just enough so John could tilt his chin up and meet his gaze, all the defiance gone out of him, placid, so willing, loving it, wanting it, wanting to please Greg, wanting nothing else but this, for Greg to have him, fuck him, own him.

“Oh, you dirty slut,” Greg moaned, appreciative. “You perfect fuck toy.” A wordless snarl, and Greg’s cock surged impossibly hot, over and over into John’s mouth, and John struggled to catch and keep it, swallowing, gagging, licking the corner of his lips and the head of Greg’s prick as he rolled back and away, panting, squeezing his eyes shut to watch the cracks of blue lightning behind his lids. Greg’s body was a riptide of endorphins, adrenaline, testosterone, and he could feel every square millimeter of his own skin, cooled by evaporating perspiration on the surface, hot with the rush of his blood beneath. He crackled with electricity, shuddered at the rush of a sudden full-body chill.

John dug his forehead into Greg’s hip, mewling a little. Greg stroked his hair. After a swipe of his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth, Greg found his voice again, and much of the demand had gone out of it. He liked these last bits best; the sleepiness that settled over him softened the edges of his aggression so that he could care for John in the aftermath, letting himself sink down as he coaxed John back up.

“You did very well,” he said, and ran his palm down John’s neck and shoulder. John nuzzled against his skin, and wriggled against the restraints. Greg moved around the bed to unfasten the leather straps around John’s arms, gently persuading him to move up the bed, and then massaged his biceps, elbows, forearms, and wrists, all the while crooning, “You were amazing. _John_.” Saying his name helped call him back to himself. Greg leaned to kiss his cheek, then his shoulder. “You took it all so well, John. I’m proud of you.”

John sniffled. He wept sometimes, processing it all as he drifted back to the surface. Greg kept a stack of neatly folded, clean white handkerchiefs embroidered with an ornate “J” on their corners on the nightstand, for just such moments. He took one up and shook its creases loose, climbed onto the bed beside John, and dabbed at his streaming tears with the hanky wrapped around two fingertips. “Oh, John, you were gorgeous. You did so very well. I’m very proud of how bravely you took all that.”

John’s eyes came half-open, and Greg smiled at him. “It was perfect,” he murmured, and ducked to kiss him—almost chastely—on the mouth. “Here, darling,” he said quietly, and reached back to the nightstand for cooling gel he kept there, swirling a bit onto his fingertips and reaching around John’s back, cradling him, holding him, as he began to smooth the gel over John’s welts. He went on crooning John’s name, praising him, tenderly, embracing, kissing, taking good care. “My darling. My sweetheart,” Greg whispered, for he was—above all else, John was Greg’s heart. “Thank you. It was perfect. Thank you.”

**Author's Note:**

> @FicAuthorPoppy  
> fuckyeahfightlock.tumblr


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